


blue moon.

by orphan_account



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Break Up, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Past Abuse, Pining, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:01:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: blue moonyou saw me standing alonewithout a dream in my heartWithout a love of my own.or the one where billy realizes how much steve truly means to him.this is SAD and LONG girlies so if you're not up for it go away ty
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	blue moon.

Billy lied down flat, cold and quite sore, across the backseat of his car, cigarette held loosely between his lips as he sloshed around a bottle of cheap gin.

He eyed the liquid, tiredly watching it move from side to side against the glass with a soft tinkling noise. 

This didn't last very long, as Billy allowed his eyes to flutter shut before taking a slow, hardy drag of his smoke and exhaling. He let his mind wonder a bit, the bottle falling from his hand and onto the mud-stained floor of his vehicle with a dull thud.

He found himself going back to '84, when him and Max first arrived to Indiana. Before the government fucked with the extraterrestrial. Before the Carrie-kids and before the giant dimension monsters. 

He thinks about Steve, and the first time they met. That one time in the locker room after a rough scrimmage. Or the times when they would lock eyes in the hallway.

The one and only Steve Harrington.

The one with those tired, sepia eyes and that gorgeous mouth of his.

Billy still remembers it; soft, pink lips moving against his own, rhythmically. Perfectly.

Steve tasted like caramel sauce and rum, warm and smooth and so incredibly sweet. Billy couldn't get enough of it, pinning him against locker room tiles, catching him in empty classrooms, the courtyard.

He remembers how even the briefest of kisses, the short, chaste ones in between classes, would leave him breathless. Shook him to the core and left him with butterflies the rest of sixth period.

He thinks about their relationship before. The messy, anger-induced fights, Steve's bloodied face as he stared up at Billy, silently begging for more, challenging him, for the sake of the kids.

He remembers moving in with Steve, circa 1987. Their tiny apartment in Chicago, three doors down from Robin, a floor away from Nancy.

He gave one of his rings to Steve, his favorite out of the bunch, arm wrapped around his slim waist, nose buried in his freshly-washed hair. Steve had smiled, pressing a kiss against Billy's cheek before sliding the jewelry onto his left ring finger.

 _'As good as engaged,'_ _he'd whispered, admiring the silver band._

_'As good as engaged.' Billy agreed as he brought Steve's hand to his lips, peppering soft kisses along each of his knuckles._

It went on like that for two more years. Billy in love with Steve, and Steve in love with Billy. He was sure that nothing could come between them, nor their affections. He knew that one day, maybe soon, he'd marry Steve. They'd become the Hargroves, move into a house together. 

_Spend the rest of their lives together._

Until May 5th, 1990. Their six year anniversary.

_'I'm leaving, Billy. I'm getting the fuck out of this shithole, and I'm leaving you too.'_

_Billy is standing in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Steve frantically stuff his belongings into a tattered, brown-leather suitcase._

_'You see this?' Steve gestured to the countless, empty syringes, bottles and plastic bags littered around the carpet. 'Quit. Get clean. Go to rehab, fucking jump in front of a train if it makes you feel better! You think skag makes you a better person, Billy? You think it'll save you?"_

_Billy feels himself shake with what? Anger? Distress? Guilt?_

_He can't tell._

_'I give up six years of my life to move in with some junkie fuck that can't even function without a needle halfway up his arm!'_

_It's only when Steve turns around that Billy notices the deep, plum-purple beneath his eyes, the fresh, endless stream of tears rolling down his cheeks._

_When he speaks again, his anger is no longer there. It's only sadness. Hoarse, vulnerable whispers only Billy can hear._

_'You're killing me, Billy." His voice cracks._

_He sounds so tired._

_Billy eyes the many, black and blue bruises along Steve's arms and legs. His neck, his right cheek. The scar above his right eye from the night Billy had thrown a broken beer bottle at him during one of his drunken fits of rage._

_'I tried to help ... tried to love you, find that feeling again. But I can only try for so long.'_

_He picks up his suitcase and walks out of the bedroom, makes a short walk to the front door before stopping._

_Billy follows him, hands glued to his sides. He tries not to cry, tries not to beg for Steve to stay. Tell him he's gonna get clean, that they can start over. But he knows it's a lie._

_'Aren't you gonna say goodbye?' He asks, instead, voice too loud. Too anxious._

_Steve doesn't turn around this time. He reaches for the doorknob, turning it. The door clicks open._

_'Happy anniversary, Billy.'_

The memory hits him like a stomachache, burns the back of his throat like bile. Steve has left about a thousand times in his dreams, over and over again, like a sick joke.

God's way of teasing him, mocking him, _shaming him._

He could no longer afford rent, which resulted in the eviction of him and his drug habits. 

He moved in with his sister, though he chose to ignore Lucas most of the time. 

He never told Max about what he'd done to Steve. Never had the guts to. She'd suffered the same abuse as a child. Billy didn't wanna think about it.

'You'll get through this,' Max had sighed, pulling him into a loose hug. 'I know you will. _We_ know you will.'

Pitiful words spoken by the gentlest of tongues sounded rough, and unbelievably loud in Billy's ears. He wanted to say something. Thank her, maybe. Scream at her. Tell her why she had no right to be so damn hopeful, _mocking him_ the way she did.

She had Lucas. The all-too-happy, smart ass Lucas Sinclair standing right beside her 24/7, her hand clutched tightly in his own.

Instead, he only nodded, eyes hesitantly meeting her's. She offered him a soft smile, running her fingers through her thick, amber waves.

The smell of her perfume was nauseating, stung Billy's nose. He felt a migraine coming on as sharp, white-hot pain bubbled behind his eyelids.

He rubbed his hands over his face, paying no mind to his sister as she grabbed her jacket, her keys, and her wallet before walking out through the back.

He couldn't help the audible sigh of relief that left his mouth as soon as she left. He couldn't help the slight pang of guilt that nipped at his insides as he thought about what might happen if he told her the truth about Steve.

Maxine never meant any harm. It wasn't her fault Billy had stolen money from Steve's account to buy himself drugs. It wasn't her fault that Billy got piss-drunk at ungodly hours of the night, coming home and finding his boyfriend asleep in the kitchen, dinner on the table, cold. Untouched.

It wasn't her fault that Steve had packed up his bags, hopped on the first taxi he saw and never called or messaged Billy since.

It wasn't her fault. It couldn't have been.

Deep down, Billy would tell himself that Steve still loved him. Unconditionally. That Steve loved him just as much as Billy loved him, that he hasn't moved on, or was fucking somebody else, or doing anything and everything Billy couldn't do for him.

Billy can no longer think about the hot, Hawkins summers he'd spent with Steve. The gentle hum of his pocket radio as waves of peace washed over the two of them. His smile, brighter than mirrored sun rays, high on the sweet smell of youth in the summer.

He can no longer think about the way Steve would take longer showers than usual when Billy would shoot up, soft whimpers challenged by the pelting water behind the thin wooden door. The way he'd talk to himself in his sleep, the way he'd refuse to sleep with Billy, preferring the couch on particularly rough nights.

The way Billy would grab him by the hair, yell at him for simply existing.

It was torturous nights like these, in his outdated Chevrolet Camaro, that made him ache from the inside out.

The inevitable unavailability of Steve's affections, not that he deserved them in the first place, and guilt eating away at what was left of his brain.

Now he just wants to sleep. Block out all thoughts of Steve, take his brain to the dry-cleaners and get it washed and bleached and ironed out.

But, alas, Billy was more awake than ever, caught between dreaming and mourning. heavy and lifeless as he thinks about what him and Steve could've been.

What they should've been.

It makes him cry; ragged, choked out sobs are ripped from his throat as tears drip down his chin. He dry heaves, body convulsing, trembling as he grips the steering wheel. He feels weak, his chest aches. But the sobs keep coming, forcing their way out of him like emotional vomit.

Once Billy can catch his breath, he stares at the gruesome mess he's become in the rearview mirror. He finds himself oddly enraptured by the subtle, sticky-burn of dried tears smeared across his cheeks.

And then it comes to him, a thought so nauseatingly true it almost hurt to admit it.

Billy Hargrove's love for Steve wasn't the prettiest thing in the world, but it was _something._

_**fin.** _

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by 'blue moon', cover by elvis presley & a poem i wrote freshman year.  
> leave your thoughts below. ☆


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